Like I mentioned before, one of the jobs I typically undertake is that of courier. The Tennel Postal Service is currently one of my best customers. They've got a border dispute going on over a planet they claim to have colonized. An adjacent empire is claiming it as theirs. Neither side has actually landed people on said planet, much less even considered that the atmosphere of the planet is poisonous to both their species, but it isn't my place to take sides in this affair. It's my place to go into the war zone, collect letters, and bring them home.
I am, thankfully, nearly done with this task. As dangerous as flying into a war zone sounds, Tennel has had so many border disputes with this particular empire that there's been a protocol for the whole event ironed out long ago, and everyone abides by it. Courier ships such as mine are allowed to pass through, collect mail from the central depot, and fly out without being bothered. Similarly, the mail we collect and deliver is personal mail. Delivery of intelligence, battle plans, and the like while under the flag of a courier is strictly forbidden and neither side would even think of it. Although I personally thought of the idea numerous times, I was rebuffed angrily whenever I brought up the topic and decided to just stick with the steady flow of money.
I've checked. Strictly speaking, it's against my contract to go snooping through the mail. However it's a long-standing facet of Tennellian society that the courier in any situation is entitled to read what he is delivering. The idea, I suppose, being that said courier can take pride in his work, knowing that real people and real families are depending on it. Instead, said courier gets bored. The letters that soldiers send back from the zone are nearly uniform in nature - unable to discuss battle plans with their families, they end up all asking the same questions. How is Timmy? How is Suzie? How is Scruffles, my lovable pet dog? How is the girl/guy/genderless creature I left back home but am eagerly awaiting upon my return?
Letters back to the war zone are the answers to these questions, and they too are all the same: Fine, fine, has fleas, has left you or is eagerly awaiting your return as well.
If I ever get caught, I can explain that I was simply indulging in Tennellian culture, and that reading their mail really does give me that extra motivation I need to go out there and get the job done. It's far nicer sounding than the truth, which is that I have very little better to do on these trips.
I've finally been cleared for boarding the station. Finally, my payday is soon!
--
"Soon" is a relative term. Once I'm cleared to be on the station, my job is to park the ship in a bay somewhere and then go away for a few hours. During this time, my ship will be searched for contraband and my cargo will be examined to ensure that it hasn't been tampered with.
Obviously, those charged with doing the preceding are not very good at their job. Like many stations, Tennel has outsourced the job of inspections to some corporation of theirs rather than relying on their military to do the job. Wanting to save as much money as possible, they went with the least expensive bid. Thus, amateur smugglers and mail-tamperers fall through the cracks. It's a sad system, but it's working for me.
Regardless of their ability to actually do the job they've been hired to do, they have an astounding ability to appear as though they're doing it, and doing it well. My ship is likely to be in inspection for the rest of the day. I'm recording this via a rental panel that I have, in a method of dubious legality, networked into my ship's computer. I'd like to take the opportunity to answer two questions you may be having. First, while I may be a smuggler and mail-tamperer and network-slicer and worst of all dis-respecter of the letter of the law, I still maintain that I am not that bad a guy. Secondly, yes, as this station orbits the world of Tennel and is one of its primary trading hubs, it is enormous and there is a great deal for me to do which would be preferential to recording notes through a clumsy rented panel. However, Tennellians communicate through flashes of light that not only can I not interpret or replicate or understand, but am also incapable of seeing most of the wavelengths of. The station population is overwhelmingly Tennellian as well. As you may imagine, my translator is on board the ship while underpaid technicians poke at it to ensure that it's not a bomb and that I haven't stashed whatever substances serve as drugs to their species somewhere inside it. Thus, note-taking while sitting in the waiting room is about the only recourse left to me. That, and I need something so I can keep my head down while the Tennellians talk to each other. The light gets dizzying after a while.
"Captain? You trader-captain?" the gratingly robotic voice of an extremely poorly maintained translator box sounds next to me. I look over and, sure enough, one of the natives is standing there clutching his box and staring into it, awaiting his answer.
I know what you're thinking now. You can read me just fine with your translator, after all, why is his translator doing such a horrible job? First of all, it's been through two translations, from his language to mine and from mine to yours. Secondly, while it's your job and mine to be able to understand anything we see and hear and therefore we make allowances in our budgets for top-of-the-line translation packages, most folks don't feel like spending that much money.
As for my suitor, I nodded to him in the vague hopes that he'd have a sophisticated enough box to understand what it meant. Judging by his lack of reply, he did not. I then shrugged, which for my species is the universal signal for "My translation box is stuck on board my ship due to underzealous inspectors wanting it to appear that they're overzealous and as a result I stand absolutely no chance of being able to communicate meaningfully with you"
That, he understood - even the poorest of rigs is geared up for that sort of signal. "Find me later. I employer number 9-1-4-1-7-1-1-2." and with that cryptic announcement, he slid off.
Employer number. That made a lot more sense. Every station's got millions of recruiters for companies local, global, and universal. Some have temporary jobs they want to give out, but most want full-time pilots who will fall in line and do exactly as they are told. As you may imagine, I'm not exactly their type. Still, I'd follow up once I got my box back, if for no other reason than to see what sort of outfit wouldn't spring for their recruiters to have modern functional translators. A company that doesn't care about its public image. My kind of place.
"Captain Ledford, we of the Tennel Inspection Service thank you for your patience in these times of crisis." the pleasant female voice piping over the loudspeakers is the same one I've heard on every station I'd ever been to. Whoever provided the voiceprint for the simulation must be a very, very rich woman. "We are pleased to inform you that our experts have discovered no contraband or tampering, and are pleased to have done business with you."
The public announcement of results was another custom of this particular empire. The idea being to reinforce the good or ill will that a pilot had engendered. It'd be embarrassing if anyone spoke my language or cared, but they don't so it just serves to let me know that I can go back to my ship, grab my translator, and have a conversation with a client.
--
"Captain Ledford, I am the Tennel representative for Borderlands Construction Corporation." Now that my translator was pulling its weight, the conversation was going quite a bit more smoothly. "We are seeking someone with combat experience to escort an important convoy of materials into a war zone."
That got my attention. I could tell from his tone - more accurately, my translator could tell by the hue of the flashes of light - that the war zone he had in mind was not exactly the sort of organized place the postal service had been sending me. Hell, the fact that they wanted combat experience and that their contract was in the Borderlands told me that much. Still, the mail delivery was little better than a milk-run and while I kept "combat experience" on my resume it'd been quite a while since I'd had to do anything. I'd gotten a bit rusty. I could use a workout. I was essentially rationalizing the fact that I was going to take the job the moment my translator hinted that it might be dangerous, and I knew it was rationalization, but hey, that's what I do when there's no good reason for me to take a dangerous job.
Still, I asked about the details.
"The star system of Poln is home to a small race that has recently discovered a method of faster than light travel. Their system is close to Anor, whose people are in a similar situation." My host wasn't blinking at all, so clearly this was a recorded briefing. I wondered how many had heard it before. "The two systems have had poor relations for quite some time now, and the people of Poln wish to increase the defensibility of their system. They are building a replacement for their Outward Station and have contracted with us to bring supplies. As the construction of this station is of utmost importance to the authorities of the system, they expect that their rivals will attempt to disrupt the shipment. You will be the leader of a squadron of three ships, also freelancers like yourself. Your contract will call for the protection of the shipment until it reaches the construction site on the edge of Polnian controlled space, and then you will be responsible for the delivery of the other freelancers to Poln."
It sounded like a mission rife for fun, but it doesn't do to appear over-enthusiastic. I asked, casually, what the mission was paying.
He answered.
I accepted immediately.